


Port in a storm

by duesternis



Series: Shoot me down and lift me up [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Crime syndicate Au, Deadlock Gang, Drinking, Fluff, Guns, M/M, Not Overwatch AU, Smoking, catching colds, riding bikes, the idiot business
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 08:04:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7610194
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/duesternis/pseuds/duesternis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>All hell breaks loose around Hanzo Shimada and Jesse McCree has to act quickly.</p><p>Running has never been quite so rewarding.</p><p> </p><p>-----<br/>Part one of a series of Crime-syndicate AU ficlets. There will be a continuity.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Port in a storm

**Author's Note:**

  * For [waldwasser](https://archiveofourown.org/users/waldwasser/gifts).



> i blame marik for this (by marik i mean waldwasser) 
> 
> first time writing fluff, be kind.

The low rumbling of an expensive car made Jesse McCree look up from lighting his cigarillo.  
A sleek black car approached from the eastside of the street and stopped maybe a hundred metres away at the curb. Some guy in a suit jumped out of the passenger seat and opened the back door with a curt, deep bow.  
Jesse lit up and blew a thin ribbon of smoke into the crisp winter air. Behind him, on the stairs, movement.  
  
„That him?“  
„That ‘im alright.“ Someone spat on the pavement and was promptly shoved.  
Silence again.  
  
Jesse watched an expensive shoe step on the grey pavement behind the door.  
A sliver of dark blue socks and then the hem of a suit. He passed his eyes over the door and looked at the face of the man they had been waiting for since yesterday.  
The first thing he noticed was the pale skin.  
Then the almond eyes. Shadowed by heavy brows.  
Meticulously cropped beard and long hair. A golden scarf was draped over the shoulders of a blackish peacoat.  
Jesse suddenly felt underdressed. Well, he had dressed up for the occasion. Black slacks normally reserved for fancy dates or christmas and a shirt that was neither brown nor patterned. More the colour of an old bathroom sink. Porcelainy and warm.  
And he had dug an old suit jacket out from somewhere that actually still kinda fit around the arms. The serape draped over his shoulders hid where it didn‘t fit so well.  
But even from a hundred metres away that damn posh bastard looked like something straight out of a magazine.  
And Jesse in retrospect exactly like what he was: A thug pretending to be a well-respected gentleman.  
  
God, was he sick of this already.  
  
„Nice an‘ easy, boys.“ The Boss weaved through his assorted men and gave Jesse‘s shoulder a slap. „C‘mon. Gotta greet him real nice.“  
„And that all for a bit‘a money?“ Jesse sucked on his cigarillo and pocketed his cold hands.  
The Boss barked a laugh and adjusted his lapel. „Not just a bit, boy. To that‘a guy there we gon deliver, boy.“ A pause. „For the right price.“  
Another cackle and they were already too close to keep talking.  
The posh guy stepped away from the car and the door was closed behind him with another bow.  
  
„Mr. Shimada! What an honour!“ The Boss extended a gloved hand and the posh guy (Shimada, apparently. Boy, Jesse needed to start really listening at briefings.) looked at it with a stony face.  
As if a roach had crawled out of his burrito. But a gloved hand lifted and met the Boss‘s. Jesse took a moment to appreciate the fine black leather gloves. Then he looked the rest of the man over.  
Sharp eyes, sharper face. Wool coat, very expensive. A dragon-shaped pin at the breast with blue, sparkling eyes. Expensive suit, probably tailored.  
Naw, definitely tailored. The fit was too good.  
And he held himself like a man who knew his place. Which was about a mile above everybody else. Roughly.  
„The honour is mine.“  
Voice said it too.  
  
Jesse took another drag and pondered the possibility of snow, following his drifting smoke with one lazy eye. The other was still on Shimada.  
„You have to be weary from your trip, come inside.“ Boss grinned and indicated the run down hotel down the street.  
The other guys were still loitering on the stairs. They straightened when they noticed the ruthless eyes of Shimada on them.  
Shimada nodded after a moment and followed the lead of the Boss with the ease of someone sure of their power.  
Jesse took rear and was joined by the guy that had opened the door for Shimada. There was a very crude silver dragon on his lapel. Apparently a thing.  
Just as they took the stairs into the foyer the first fat snowflakes loosened from the heavy clouds.  
  
Jesse draped his serape tighter around his shoulders and closed the front doors behind himself. There was a draft coming from somewhere.  
Shimada‘s gold scarf moved softly in it. His hair was pulled into a tight bun and from behind Jesse saw, that not one hair was out of place.  
Suddenly self-conscious he dragged a cold left over the nape of his neck. Where his hair covered the collar of his shirt disorderly. He dragged the hand over his scruffy beard and dropped it at his side with a sigh.  
Took a long drag from his cigarillo and watched Shimada peel his gloves from his hands. One finger at a time.  
It looked forbidden.  
Jesse couldn‘t look away.  
A snap of fat fingers brought his attention back to his Boss.  
„McCree, take our guests to the third conference room. And get‘em somethin‘ hot to drink. We‘ll be startin‘ in fifteen.“ A steely glance and Jesse felt a shiver creeping up, the draft tickling his skin.  
„Gotcha.“ He tipped his hat back a notch and nodded at Shimada, who just looked at him with the unblinking grace of a deadly weapon.  
Something tight curled up in Jesse‘s chest and unfurled just a second later when Shimada nodded back.

 

The third conference room deserved no such moniker.  
It was an old dinner room perhaps. A buffet or bar at the left side of the room and a scatter of mismatched tables and chairs in the middle.  
They were arranged in a crude circle, something out of a children‘s drawing.  
Hanzo handed his coat to Mizusuke, who draped it carefully over his left arm. Right left free to draw, if need be.  
The man who had lead them here walked through the room, soles silent on the worn carpet, but the ridiculous spurs at the heel of his (old) boots made enough noise to announce him a room over. He put a gloved hand on the counter of the buffet and walked around it.  
Reached down and pulled a bottle filled with honey liquid out of some compartment.  
A bar, not a buffet.  
  
„Stiff or on ice?“  
Mizusuke, whose english was tolerable at best, shook his head. „No, thank you.“ It was heavily accented.  
Hanzo stepped towards the bar and sat down on one of the old stools. The faux leather creaked under his weight.  
„Stiff.“  
The man muttered something under his smokey breath and Hanzo ignored him until a drink was set down between his hands. The glass was miraculously clean.  
The liquid looked almost sophisticated in the grey gloom coming in through the dirty windows behind the man with the hat.  
„Cheers, Shimada-san.“  
  
A moment of surprise. Hanzo kept it reined in. „Kanpai, Mr. ...“  
A splutter of a laugh, deep and throaty. „Ah, damn, sorry. McCree. Jesse McCree. Must‘ve left my manners somewhere in that cold.“  
He shifted his drink from his right hand into his left hand and watched his fingers close around the glass before he extended his free hand for Hanzo to take.  
Who looked at it and pondered not taking it. But this glove at least looked clean, unlike the gloves of the so called Boss of these men.  
„Shimada Hanzo.“  
„Pleasure.“ A firm handshake and a sparkle in brown eyes. Hanzo nodded and wondered why the man, McCree, insisted on wearing his hat indoors.  
They let go of each other‘s hands and clinked glasses. Hanzo seized McCree‘s eyes and did not let them go as they both drank.  
Mizusuke shifted behind Hanzo in the room and Hanzo subtly lifted a finger to still him. It worked, as it always did.  
McCree finished his drink first and set the empty glass down with a muted sound in the dim room.  
  
„So.“  
Hanzo set his own glass down without so much as a sound. „Yes.“  
„Good.“  
„For me, yes.“ Hanzo allowed himself a grin and was not sure, if McCree had understood him as good as he understood McCree.  
These henchmen were all the same. Worried about their status in the group more than about their group.  
McCree chuckled and took his hat off with his left hand. It moved stiffly.  
A head of shaggy, unkempt brown hair revealed itself. It looked nearly as barbaric as the scruffy beard on his face.  
And strangely, McCree seemed to be made of one colour. Face, hair and eyes were made of one clay, baked a bit longer at some parts, but all one clay.  
  
„Does it snow in Japan?“ He leaned one elbow on the counter and rested his chin in the hand. The suit was worn thin at the elbow, the hem abused and the fit on the arms and the shoulder was bad.  
Hanzo smiled. „More than here, in the mountains.“  
A low whistle that made Mizusuke jerk his right hand to his hidden holster. McCree‘s keen eyes picked the movement up.  
Holster, not hidden anymore, Hanzo adjusted in his mind.  
„Well, ain‘t so fond of the stuff. Too cold for my taste anyways. But damn, the Midwest is a beautiful thing, covered in five inches of it. Seen it once, still makes my chest go all quiet, when I think‘f it.“  
Hanzo frowned faintly and struggled to translate the last bit in his head. English eluded him from time to time and probably always would.  
„There is a stillness to Japan in winter your America will not reach.“  
Another one of those laughs and Hanzo found himself studying the crow‘s feet left and right of McCree‘s brown eyes. His wide mouth had a pleasing shape when he laughed.  
„Can‘t say a bit ‘bout that, never seen it.“  
„A wise thing to say.“ Hanzo indicated the bottle with a twist of his glass. McCree complied. „Which comes as a surprise.“  
And now McCree really laughed. Tears made his eyes wet earth and Hanzo sipped his drink.  
The second glass brought forth certain tones in the taste Hanzo had not noticed before. He forewent a third glass when McCree lifted the bottle in question.  
„There is still work to do.“  
„Aw, aren‘tcha quite the strict one?“  
Hanzo only frowned and checked his wristwatch. The appointed fifteen minutes had passed nearly five minutes ago.  
  
McCree stashed the bottle again and walked around the bar. Away from the windows, donning his hat. Hanzo stood and turned towards the room.  
Mizusuke looked at him with a nervous frown. His hand was creeping towards the holster. Hanzo didn‘t move.  
The gloom of the room darkened quickly now. Night came early in winter.  
McCree sucked on his cigarillo and tapped ash on the worn carpet. The smoke smelled of cedar and vanilla.  
Hanzo moved easily through the room, keeping between two windows, never making a clear shot possible.  
„Your men are late, McCree.“  
A huff of breath. Mizusuke twitched.  
„Well, ain‘t with‘em, can‘t tell ya what keeps‘em.“ The brown eyes hid in the shadow of the hat. Hanzo wanted to slap it off, to see if the man was lying or not.  
But he kept his stance by the conference table, setting sun in his back and McCree before him.  
Someone walked past the room in the hallway and Mizusuke jerked, nerves jittering.  
A single shot and he fell.  
Hanzo stood motionless. Didn‘t acknowledge what had happened.  
McCree held his gaze, cigarillo smoking softly in the corner of his wide mouth.  
Hanzo felt his eyes slip to it and kept them straight ahead with willpower.  
  
„Ya should getcha coat.“  
McCree stretched his shoulders, sighed and unwrapped the red cloth around his shoulders. Then he pulled the ill fitting suit jacket off and dropped it on the carpet.  
The red cloth went around his shoulders again.  
Hanzo thought he would never forget the line of muscle under the ivory shirt.  
Then the windows behind him burst in a rain of glass.

 

Jesse had Peacekeeper in his hand without remembering drawing and he kept shooting.  
Not at the target.  
Not at the stocky japanese man rolling towards his fallen comrade, taking coat and weapon in one grab, seeking a moment of breath under the table.  
Jesse shot at the men on the other side of the glass and hit four out of six.  
A good count for a man with the sun in his eyes.  
  
„Shimada!“  
Jesse couldn‘t look at him under the table, but he jerked his head towards the almost hidden door to his left.  
A rustle of cloth under the table and Shimada was at Jesse‘s side, prying the door open, before Jesse got another shot in.  
„Well, ain‘tcha a quick rabbit.“  
„Dragon.“  
Jesse reloaded and looked at Shimade with a half frown, shot blindly and heard a distant scream. Angry.  
„Dragon?“  
„Not a rabbit. You go first, McCree.“ Shimada had his coat back on, scarf on the dark wool and a very nice gun in his right hand.  
Jesse whistled and slipped into the crooked maintenance hallway.  
„Only good thing ‘bout‘em old houses. Every room‘s a way to freedom, if ya know where to walk.“  
A snort from behind Jesse and he noticed for the first time how small Shimada was. The snort was about shoulder height.  
„So, you are not only a cowboy, but also a philosopher. What a day.“  
„Yeah, well. Aim ta please, Shimada-san.“ Jesse tipped his hat in the murky twilight of the secret hallway and took the stairs very carefully.  
  
Shimada was silent until they reached the end of them. Then he sighed.  
But only spoke when they were standing in the underground garage. Breath hung in thick clouds between them.  
„Why are you not shooting at me?“  
Jesse turned to look at him. Shouts rang through the house above them and spilled through the open door behind them.  
„No idea,“ he laughed and shrugged. „Just didn‘t like the idea of shooting ya in the back and taking ya money like that. Ain‘t my style.“  
„Would you rather have my face?“  
And Jesse couldn‘t help but blush at that. Shimada had very pretty lips. They might be even prettier kissed raw and red.  
He shook his head clear. „Might wanna shoot ya in mighty different places, darlin‘.“  
And Jesse McCree cursed his big mouth quietly as Hanzo Shimada looked at him with disdain in his almond eyes.  
  
„Take me out of this place and to my car.“  
„No can do, sweetheart.“  
Shimada lifted the gun he took from his dead companion with ease. But his grip was off and his finger didn‘t quite reach the trigger comfortably.  
Jesse was more than sure he could outshoot the man like this.  
„They‘ll have taken it by now. So I‘m your only chance to get outta here.“ A smart grin and Shimada cursed low in Japanese.  
He was too smart to not have considered the possibility of having lost his car and still. Still he asked to be taken there.  
Jesse looked at him. Blinked once, then twice.  
Shouts in the stairwell.  
„C‘mon. Gotta go.“ Unthinking his left hand reached for Shimada‘s wrist and Jesse tugged.  
Unforeseen Shimada allowed the manhandling and simply fell into step at Jesse‘s side. Maybe he knew as good as his car was gone, that the gun was too big for him.  
Maybe he normally didn‘t use a gun. He looked like someone having people do the dirty work for him.  
Jesse wanted to ask what weapon of choice Shimada had, but a shot aimed at his left leg, right between him and Shimada, made him just run faster.  
  
„Here!“  
Shimada followed the tells of Jesse‘s body more than his voice. But he screeched to a halt when he saw the ride they were taking.  
„A motorcycle?“  
„Yeah, darlin‘, ain‘t she a babe?“  
A pause. Another shot, this time at the ceiling above them. An angry shout. „McCree, ya bastard!“  
„I‘d love ta have her in one piece. And me as well.“ A smart grin and Shimada slipped on the ride behind him.  
„I do believe asking for a helmet would be foolish.“  
„Hold on to the hat.“  
And Shimada really reached up and took the battered leather from Jesse‘s head. Toned arms gently wrapped around his waist, hat held surely in both gloved hands.  
When had the gloves come back into the picture?  
A grin spread Jesse‘s cheeks and he started the engine.  
„And now better hold on to me, sweetheart. This‘ll be one hell of a ride.“  
Shimada muttered something in Japanese and Jesse ran two people over before they made it out of the garage and into the snow storm blowing outside.

 

There was one warm spot left in Hanzo‘s body.  
It was the line of his chest, pressed tightly against the rough wool of the cloth McCree wore over his shoulders.  
It smelled like cedar, vanilla, leather and sun.  
The wind bit into Hanzo like a starved wild dog. It gnawed on his limbs and tore the skin from his face with rabid joy.  
A car followed them and McCree drove too fast. The motorcycle hummed and roared beneath their legs and Hanzo was half sure that McCree had laughed at least one time since they had left the hotel.  
A shot rang in the air, thick with snow. People screamed. Another shot, this time from their right.  
The bike made a strange movement and Hanzo tried to accomodate.  
„Gotcha, honey, gotcha. ‘S all alright.“ McCree sounded breathless and Hanzo felt his heart race against his chest.  
They were beating the same fast rhythm. McCree‘s heart taking up the space between Hanzo‘s own heartbeats, one long line of thumps forming between them.  
  
McCree took a deep breath and sped up.  
He swerved from the crowded streets into an alleyway, too narrow for a car and nearly too narrow for the heavy bike.  
Two more shots and the quickly fading sound of running feet.  
Another alley, a backyard, a small street. The snow drained sound out of the city.  
It was almost peaceful.  
Hanzo had to take care not to bite off his tongue when they suddenly drove down a flight of stairs.  
„McCree!“  
„Yeah?“ A half turned head and Hanzo had the brown hair in his mouth and nostrils. It was damp and cold.  
He spluttered for a second and McCree reached the end of the stairs. The bike slowed to a reasonable speed.  
Another drop and Hanzo cursed lowly.  
„What are you doing?“  
  
„Takin‘ us outta the picture. Somewhere safe, to find a way for you to leave this hellhole, sugar.“ They were in an old subway tunnel. Driving between old rails.  
Hanzo was quiet. He could neither feel his arms nor his legs. And wished for the numbness to take his face too. But the wind down here was warmer.  
„‘Cause trust me, ya don‘t wanna end up in them hands. Not with all the money you have.“ A slight pause, only the roar of the engine and a chattering sound. Hanzo‘s teeth.  
„And ya pretty face.“  
Hanzo frowned. It was not a pretty face. It was simply a face. Eyes, nose, mouth, ears. A beard, eyebrows and a universal frown.  
„What is our destination?“  
McCree chuckled and Hanzo didn‘t get the joke. Maybe everything was a joke to this man. His waist was very hard between Hanzo‘s arms.  
„Home, sweet home, darlin‘.“  
  
They turned into a smaller tunnel Hanzo hadn‘t seen before they were in it.  
The air was still warmer here. His cheeks burned. Hanzo didn‘t want to know what it was like for McCree, who had taken the blunt of the cold wind.  
The bike slowed down a notch more. Hanzo closed his eyes and breathed for a moment.  
A mouthful of McCree‘s scent. The chest under his hands rattled softly with every breath. A hitch in the rhythm.  
„Are you hurt, McCree.“ Not really a question.  
„Just a graze. Nothin‘ a bit of spit and a drink can‘t take care of.“  
Hanzo scoffed at the reckless way this fool treated his body and nearly fell off the bike when they suddenly stopped.  
A steadying hand at his waist held him atop the bike.  
„You have my gratitude.“  
McCree laughed. „Say that when we‘re upstairs.“ His long legs swung over the bike and he palmed a keychain out of his pocket.  
The headlight gave the tunnel they had stopped in an endless feeling. McCree opened a grey metal door in the right wall of the tunnel and flicked the lights on inside the room beyond.  
Hanzo got off the bike and felt incredibly stiff legged. As if he had just kneeled for hours.  
„How many stairs?“  
  
McCree lit a cigarillo and inhaled the warm smoke with closed eyes. His face was red from the harsh wind and his brow was knitted.  
Hanzo wanted to reach up and touch the knot between the brows until it vanished.  
McCree turned away and pulled the keys of the bike out of the ignition. The light spilled out of the stairwell and made him look imposing.  
„A couple?“  
An exasperated look made McCree chuckle and together they manned the stairs. Hanzo stopped counting after having miscounted at least twice.  
He was tired and in pain and the adrenaline in his system was waning.  
McCree was humming under his breath, one hand pressed to his right side. Above the waist, by the ribcage.  
Hanzo ran into the warm back in front of him when McCree stopped suddenly on a landing.  
„Whoa, there, tiger.“ A warm chuckle and again the steadying hand. Hanzo felt himself flush with embarassment.  
„Again, my gratitude.“  
„Nah, ‘s all good.“ A pause in which the door was unlocked. „Unless...“  
„What?“  
  
McCree looked at Hanzo and smiled with his eyes. „Nah, nothin‘.“  
Hanzo shouldered past McCree with a scoff and found himself in a dark flat. There was the smell of cold smoke and vanilla. A faint undertone of cedar.  
Something else.  
The lights flickered on overhead.  
It was just one large room. Small windows high in the ceiling. One big window by the kitchen area. A big bed by a single door.  
Hanzo presumed it hid the bathroom.  
It was very warm in the flat. The heat hurt Hanzo‘s cold burned face and he hissed a breath in between his teeth.  
„Ey, it ain‘t that bad.“ McCree half-chuckled and dropped his cloak on a chair by the door that seemed to have solely that purpose. „Aww, was the only white shirt I owned too.“  
„Ivory.“  
„What?“ McCree looked up from where he was gingerly touching the red patch on his chest. Really just a simple graze.  
„It is ivory coloured. Not white. My shirt is white.“  
Another chuckle. „Whatever you say, darlin‘. Still ruined it, tho.“  
  
Hanzo had nothing to say to that, so he simply took off his coat. Noticed, that he still was holding on to the leather hat. His fingers were so cold, it hurt to make them let go.  
McCree jerked forward, took the hat, tossed it aside and carefully took Hanzo‘s gloved hands.  
„Shit, what‘re those gloves good for, when they ain‘t keepin‘ you warm?“  
„They keep me sufficiently warm, under normal circumstances.“  
A laugh. „You talk like a machine.“ Surprisingly nimble fingers gently pried the leather from Hanzo‘s frost white hands.  
McCree looked at them with a deep frown. His cigarillo was smoking in the corner of his mouth. Hanzo wanted to touch the place where the full lips were dented by the shape of it.  
„Okay, you go take a shower.“ McCree let go of Hanzo‘s hands and pointed at the door by the bed. „There‘s the shower. I‘ve got a robe on the door, ya can use it. Real warm an‘ such. I‘ll get somethin‘ hot for us out of the kitchen.  
„You are injured.“  
„‘S jus‘ a scratch. You‘re my guest.“ A stern point at the door and Hanzo complied with a sigh. He was too cold to argue with a dimwit either way.  
„I will require more clothes than just a robe.“ He suddenly became aware of how wet his clothes were. They stuck to him and felt half frozen in some places.  
McCree looked at him for a moment. „They ain‘t gonna fit ya right.“  
„At least they will be dry. I fear there will neither be something fitting, nor something pleasing here.“  
„Hey, I saved‘cha life. Show some gratitude.“  
„I am.“  
„Bless your heart.“ A chuckle and McCree wandered off, spurs jingling, to open the closet by the bed.  
  
It looked disordered even from the entry door. Much like the rest of the flat. Hanzo slowly made his way to the bathroom door, knees still stiff.  
McCree met him there, a bundle of clothes in his still gloved hand. „Here.“  
„Thank you, McCree.“  
„Call me Jesse. I hate being called by last name in my home.“  
„You may not call me by my given name.“ Hanzo took the clothes and opened the bathroom door. Before he closed it he smiled. „Jesse.“  
The brown eyes lit up in a way that made Hanzo consciously regulate his breathing.  
The lock snicked closed with a soft sound.  
A second later he opened the door again.

 

„There‘s no key.“

„I know.“  
„How will I lock the door without a key.“  
„Guess ya won‘t lock the door. Coffee or tea?“  
„Tea. I will not shower with an unlocked door.“  
„Keep freezin‘ then. Heard it‘s mighty fun to lose a hand or such from cold...“ Jesse rubbed his beard with his left hand. The right one hurt too much to use.  
As if to prove a point Shimada shivered violently in the doorway. A second ticked by, then the door closed with a muttered curse.  
„Ah, language, sweetheart!“  
Louder, this time, the same curse came again. Jesse laughed and sat down on the bed. Somehow got his boots and glove off and walked into the kitchen on woolen socks.  
  
He closed the shutters on the window and was very glad when he finally heard the water run in the bathroom.  
The radio crackled with static when he turned it on. Damn snow. But the low, twangy sounds of his favourite station seemed even more beautiful with the low crackling.  
It almost reminded Jesse of campfires and low conversations. Stars above and sand under his boots.  
Not this damn city life.  
He sighed, tapped ash into a used coffee mug and boiled water. Old-fashioned on the stove.  
The cabinet spit out some tea when he asked for it with smarting fingers and a tired curse.  
It was black, but it was the only kind he had, so it had to be good enough.  
A few moments later a steaming cup of coffee and one of tea sat next to each other on the counter.  
Jesse even found some biscuits that weren‘t completely soggy or dry. Almost crispy.  
The shower stopped.  
Jesse looked at the green door leading to the bathroom. Took a sip of coffee and tried not to imagine Hanzo Shimada standing naked on his shower rug, toweling his hair dry with one of Jesse‘s towels. Maybe he took the one with the ducks on it.  
It was Jesse‘s favourite, next to the one with the Road Runner on it.  
He picked the mugs and biscuits up and carried them to the couch table. His right side was pulsing low, the blood on his chest was crusting.  
The bathroom door opened and Jesse dropped the biscuits.

 

The air was pleasantly warm, hot even. The bathroom was bigger than Hanzo would have thought.  
And everything smelled of cedar and something else. Sweat maybe. He lifted one of the towels to his face and sniffed.  
No, not the towel but something else.  
The clothes he had been given.  
Hanzo unfolded them. A pair of black sweatpants, an oil stain on the right thigh and a hole at the hem, and a sweater. A dusty red colour with no markings. It looked well kept, cared for.  
A favourite piece.  
  
Hanzo carefully buried his nose in the soft cotton and inhaled. His eyes closed.  
Yes.  
This was it.  
Like sun on already hot stones. A warm, earthy scent.  
Hanzo sighed softly and peeled his own clothes off his body. Dropped them in a heap on the floor and climbed into the shower. He was shaking now, teeth chattering again and hands so unsteady he nearly dropped the showerhead.  
But ten minutes of hot water on his frozen skin made Hanzo feel almost human again.  
He grabbed a towel blindly and rubbed himself dry, until his skin tingled with the added heat of it.  
Hanzo pulled the sweatpants on and then the sweater. Both were just a little bit too roomy. Just enough to catch warm air underneath and heat his cold skin.  
The mirror was fogged, so Hanzo used McCree‘s brush blindly.  
Then he hung his clothes up to dry on the small heater and opened the door. The smell of freshly brewed coffe hung in the air. The room was cold by comparison to the bathroom.  
Something clattered by the middle of the room. Hanzo looked at McCree.  
Whose mouth was open, eyes wide.  
He looked endearing.  
„I have no socks.“

 

Jesse sputtered, jerked into movement, stepped on a biscuit and went on regardless.  
Socks, how could he have forgotten the socks.  
His eyes flitted over to where Shimada was still standing. The bathroom was a cloud of steam behind him, his hair was wet on his shoulders and his eyes looked warm and relaxed.  
Tired and placid, a pleased animal.  
Jesse opened his drawers and pulled a pair of woolen socks out. Warm and soft. He stumbled over something lying on the floor and hit his knee against the edge of the bed.  
Shimada laughed softly and met him by the other edge of it.  
Their hands touched.  
„You look good.“ Jesse wanted to shoot himself in the leg. Shimada sat down on Jesse‘s bed and pulled the socks on. „Red‘s a good colour for ya. Makes ya look...“ He trailed off and watched a drop of water snake down Shimada‘s thick neck.  
  
„The tea?“ Shimada stood. Way too close to Jesse. Who couldn‘t breathe all of a sudden. Just point meekly at the couch table and sigh.  
„Go, shower. You look half frozen, Mc-.“ A pause. „Jesse.“  
Jesse laughed, face red and practically bolted into the bathroom.  
„Shit, oh Fuck. Shit.“ Shimada was wearing his clothes, in his flat and had used his shower gel.  
And they knew each other for roughly an hour. „God damn.“  
It had to be all the adrenaline.  
  
Jesse chuckled breathlessly and dropped his clothes on the floor. The shower was set to scalding, but it was nice. A hot rhythm on his skin that beat the cold away.  
With a sad sigh he turned the water off, when it lost its hot edge and reached for his towel. Which was wet.  
A surge of a very different kind of heat spread through his belly. Shimada had used his towel.  
Unknowing and innocently he had used Jesse‘s towel to dry his wet skin...  
Jesse laughed again and touched the scratch on his chest, just to keep his mind from doing weird things. It stung.  
„He‘s a respectable man, McCree. Rich as a man can be, too handsome for ya and he could kill ya with a look. Probably.“ The foggy shape of his reflection nodded and Jesse combed his hair.  
Pulled his shorts back on and then the robe.  
Wait a moment. Shorts. Shimada wasn‘t wearing shorts, right?  
„God, McCree, ya damn teenager, shut it.“ He shook his head at his own stupidity and opened the door to the flat again.  
Shimada was sitting on the couch, a book in hand and tea cradled against his chest. A sliver of colour was peeking out of the neckline of the sweater. Something dark.  
  
„Howdy.“  
He looked up and his eyes softened out of a squint. „Hello.“  
Jesse smiled and walked to his closet. „Forgot my socks, too.“  
„You should check in with your doctor.“ The accent was a bit stronger than before and Jesse found he liked it.  
„If only I could remember his name...“ A faux face of concentration and Shimada snorted into his tea. Jesse chuckled and picked his favourite socks.  
Then he took a seat next to Shimada on the couch. Sighed and stretched his legs out.  
  
The radio was softly crackling in the kitchen and Shimada looked at him unashamed. At the V of skin the robe showed on his chest.  
The bare legs peeking out, the line of thigh revealed when Jesse shifted.  
He turned red under the scrutiny and played it cool.  
His arm snaked on the back rest of the couch and he grinned softly at Shimada.  
That grin that made his eyes burn low like embers, his teeth a white row in his beard.  
„Like what you see?“  
A moment. Shimada tilted his head and looked some more. Made a soft noise Jesse couldn‘t interpret.  
Then.  
„Yes.“  
Shimada took a sip of his tea, turned back to the book and Jesse was pretty sure his heart had just stopped.

 

McCree stiffened on the couch and Hanzo had to keep from laughing.  
Again, the man looked endearing. Like a dog, caught at something.  
Hanzo flipped a page in the book he had picked up from the table. He had started reading where McCree had left off.  
It was an old book. Adventures and cowboys and a lot of unnecessary swooning. The illustrations were captioned with badly fitting quotes from the story.  
His eyes snaked back to McCree.  
The brown skin under the white robe was flushed a rich colour and Hanzo sighed soundlessly.  
Set the book aside and finished his tea. Cheap, but well prepared.  
  
„Has no one ever told you that you look handsome, Jesse?“ Hanzo felt something in his throat flutter and did not know what it was.  
It was not unpleasant.  
McCree swallowed and Hanzo watched his adam‘s apple bob.  
„Not like that, no.“  
„Like what.“  
„So... confident.“ It sounded timid and Hanzo looked at McCree with careful eyes. Such a tall, imposing man should not sound timid. It was wrong somehow.  
„A simple word for a simple fact.“  
A rasping laugh and then something like a sob. Hanzo looked at McCree, but his eyes were dry.  
Curious.  
  
„You saved my life.“  
„Piece‘a cake. They didn‘t wantcha dead so bad.“ Voice hard suddenly and Hanzo shifted his hands around the empty mug.  
„Their mistake. I will want them dead now.“  
„Ain‘t‘cha quite something, Shimada.“  
Hanzo licked his lips and his fingers trailed the shape of his beard. Two dragons wrestled in his chest and one won.  
„Hanzo.“  
Silence fell. Only the radio softly played.  
McCree looked at him, with big eyes. Mouth open and wide. Then, like dawn in the mountains, a smile broke loose and Hanzo had to keep a sigh restricted.  
„Hanzo!“  
A yawn interrupted the fond laughter that followed and McCree rumbled softly afterwards. Hanzo wanted to put a hand on his chest and feel the vibrations of his laughter.  
  
„You take the bed, sweetheart.“  
„You‘re injured.“  
„You‘re the guest.“  
„You saved my life.“  
„May have done that. Still. My house, my rules. You have the bed.“  
„I do not want it.“ He lifted his chin and crossed his arms over his chest.  
„Ugh.“  
Hanzo looked at the bed. It was rather large. „It fits two.“  
McCree opened his mouth. Closed it again. A fish on dry land. „I wouldn‘t wanna pressure you.“  
„I suggested we share the bed. You can hardly pressure me.“ Hanzo stood and walked towards the bed, not waiting for an answer.

He got it when the blanket lifted, the lights turned off, and Jesse McCree climbed into bed with Hanzo Shimada, roughly three hours after meeting him for the first time.  
They slept soundly in each other‘s arms.


End file.
